


Hello

by AssassinOfRome



Category: The World's End (2013)
Genre: Aggressive use of the f word, Drunken phonecalls, Gary no, I WROTE THIS FOR SOMEONE'S BIRTHDAY, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, What Is Wrong With ME, razor blades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He shouldn’t be doing this. </p><p>He’s drunk, and he’s high, and he’s all alone in a bathroom he doesn’t recognise, with a bottle of vodka at his hip, and a half rolled cigarette in his shaking fingertips. His jeans are stained with God knows what, and against his thigh rests a battered old mobile phone, scuffed and shattered, but still somehow working." </p><p>In which Gary tries to call Andy.</p><p>NOW WITH ADDED FANART</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jchm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jchm/gifts).



> I wrote this for Jo's birthday, and henceforth apologise for this trash. 
> 
> Have a good day, buddy; you've really made my life better whilst being in it. :D 
> 
> Vaguely inspired by the new Adele song, and titled after it. Do not listen to it and think of Gary/Andy. Just don't.
> 
> NOW WITH NEW BEAUTIFUL FANART FROM JOXEM 
> 
> https://31.media.tumblr.com/c98ab631eb53d0d30c55563e0661f716/tumblr_nx59nou5251rs20a4o1_1280.gif
> 
> LOOK AT THIS CUTENESS

He shouldn’t be doing this. 

He’s drunk, and he’s high, and he’s all alone in a bathroom he doesn’t recognise, with a bottle of vodka at his hip, and a half rolled cigarette in his shaking fingertips. His jeans are stained with God knows what, and against his thigh rests a battered old mobile phone, scuffed and shattered, but still somehow working. 

It’s flashing at the moment, displaying countless missed calls from his mother. Why she wants to talk to him, he’ll never understand. All he does is fuck things up. Without him, she’d still be with WhatHisFace, her rotten old fiancé who was only trying to do what was right. It’s bad enough that he poisons every relationship of his own, but it’s begun to spread, like a fucking cancer. 

If he closes his eyes, and tilts his head just so, he can remember the brush of Andy’s lips against his. He always used to taste so warm, like coming home. There was something fresher there too, the glimmer of hope, potential. And sometimes grass, if they’d been pissing about in the fields above the town, rolling around in the dying light and waiting for the stars to appear. 

God, he wants to hear Andy’s voice. Or Sam’s. Or Steve’s. Anything to cut through this wailing trash; kids these days have no fucking class when it comes to music. His stomach jolts as the bass shakes the ground, causing the vodka to ripple. He clutches the bottle like a lover, frightened it will spill. There’s enough shit on these tiles as it is. 

His fingers dial before he can stop them. He’s got the numbers memorised. God, he’s so drunk he can’t remember his own name, but that number, that man, stays with him. It’s like his name is branded into his heart. He can feel it, searing his skin, boiling away inside.

The ringing makes his head pound, and his stomach clench. It seems to go on forever, echoing around the empty room. He wonders how long he can keep going – ten trills, a hundred, a thousand? He’s got nothing better to do than wait. 

There is no answer. 

The automated voice is curt, dismissive. She thinks he’s a fool, a fool for calling a number that will never respond. Stupid for trying and trying until he’s out of credit and out of hope. The bottle ran dry twenty minutes ago, and his tongue feels like sandpaper. He pants, like a dog, like a stupid fucking beast as he scrabbles upward, lapping at the dripping tap water. It looks dirty in the gloomy, but doesn’t everything? 

That’s when he sees it. He may be a fucking idiot, but he knows a razor when he sees it. His hand brushes against his cheek as he reaches for it. Fuck, he needs a shave. A shave, and a shower, and sleep. He feels so tired. 

To shave would be a waste of the little blade’s potential. Then he and Gary would match. A waste of time, of space, of effort. He runs a finger down the cold steel; it’s not sharp as he would have hoped. This would be slow. It would hurt. 

Good.


End file.
